by Rolf Nelson
Harbin looks on disapprovingly. “Souvenirs are useless. Kill more people by distracting them from the mission than you’d believe.”
“Maybe so. But something tells me this is worth the risk. It’s not that heavy.” Helton gestures at the entrance to the cave. “They gone?”
“Seem to be.”
“Think we can rest a bit longer. Until it cools off, anyway.”
Harbin shrugs his assent, lies back into a more comfortable position, closes his eyes, and falls asleep immediately. Helton looks at him in surprise, then settles back as well.
The reddish light filtering into the cave mouth is dim and low-angled. The sun is close to setting. Helton gently kicks Harbin’s boot with his. Harbin’s eyes open narrowly, then fully. “Rocks. Comfy as always.”
“Yeah, I hear you, but better than sleeping with knockout gas.”
They stand, stretch a moment, adjust their clothes, drink from water bottles, gauge the little remaining, then lean up the slope to the open part of the entryway, listening closely. Nothing but the faint breeze reaches their ears.
“Well, not too much farther,” Helton says. “Let’s roll, then.” They scramble up the slope and out.
Mine
Helton and Harbin lie just below the crest of a small ridge of gravel and rocks, peering over the top. The sun is halfway to zenith, casting long shadows down the slope, but their dust-covered clothes blend into the rocks. Three steep-walled valleys converge in the distance, with the prison mine operation located against a far wall of the nearest. They see scattered tailing piles, and a landing pad to one side: two large fliers, one medium, and two small two-person quad-rotors. No walls or fences, just cheap industrial buildings constructed against the rock face, a few outbuildings (one not far from the landing field), and a couple of conveyor belts leading to large gravel piles. A few large pieces of earth-moving equipment are parked in the shadows.
Harbin squints into the sun. “No fence. That’ll make it easier.”
“Don’t need one. Where’d they run?” Helton asks. Harbin grunts. “We’ll need keys,” Helton continues, “likely from the building next to the field. Then we go for the biggest flier. Okay, so we wait for dusk, sneak in over there on the right in the shadows.”
“No.”
Helton cocks his head, looks at Harbin questioningly.
“In another hour or so, the rocks will be the same temperature as us, and we will hardly show up on thermal scanners. They won’t expect someone coming from this side, and they’d not expect someone to try to escape during the heat of the day, so they’re not likely to see us in full daylight. Sun overhead means little shadow, too.”
“Just walk up? I thought I was in charge.”
“Of getting us here. Winning battles is what I do.”
“Hope you’re right.”
Harbin grins widely. “So do I, Helton. So do I.” They carefully start backing down the ridge.
The sun is directly overhead, shadows almost nonexistent. Helton and Harbin stand on level ground at the foot of the gravelly ridge, near its end.
“Time. Let’s do this,” says Helton.
Harbin hefts a baseball-sized rock and tosses it in the air, catches it, stretches his shoulders, and nods. They walk smoothly and boldly around the corner and across the open area, toward one of the outbuildings, their clothes blending into the everything-dust-colored buildings and background. They approach a door facing them, open it, and stride right in, Harbin leading the way, rock in hand.
Helton closes the door silently behind them. No one is visible in the well-lit building. Crowding the warehouse, limiting their visibility, are stacks and pallets of crates and barrels, and shelving with boxes, bins, and cases. To one side are a desk and a small walled cubicle with a closed door. Harbin holds up a hand for silence and they listen intently. Nothing.
Harbin motions Helton to go left, while he goes right. Moving quietly along their respective walls they see no one. They circle around and meet back by the door, exchanging head-shakes. On the desk are several screens, showing a paused movie, a grid of security camera views of the outside of the building and the surrounding area, and overlapping windows of slowly scrolling text. Also on the desk are a handheld barcode scanner and an assortment of generic office gear, including a large pair of scissors. They look at each other and Helton is about to speak when a flushing sound comes from the side cubicle. Harbin grabs the scissors from the desk with his left hand, wielding them like a knife. They spring to either side of the door as it opens.
Inside the dirty bathroom is Dopestick, looking down and slightly sideways at his left hand, scratching himself with the right. He notices Helton out of the corner of his left eye and reaches for a com unit on his belt. He freezes when Harbin holds the scissors to his neck, then drops when Harbin whacks him carefully with the rock. “Well, well, well.” Harbin says, as he crouches and takes the com unit from the slaver’s belt.
“Looks like his Karma wheel is spinning faster than most, eh?”
Harbin eyes the com, examining its settings. He nods in satisfaction and bends to check the unconscious slaver’s pulse for a moment. “Thick skull. Get a drink, I’ll watch him,” he says, going through the slaver's pockets and dropping their contents on the floor.
Helton goes into the bathroom, turns on the faucet, rinses his hands, then cups them to drink deeply and splash water on his face. He rises with a sigh of relief. When he turns around, he sees a small pile of assorted pocket contents and Harbin dragging the limp form out of sight of the door with one hand, scissors in the other. He helps Harbin drag the slaver to the back of the building.
Once there, Harbin motions at the front: “Watch the door and cameras.” Helton walks toward the desk, and Harbin grabs a spool of cord from a shelf. A few minutes later, he rejoins Helton, pausing at the door of the cubicle. “Anything?” he asks.
“Nope. All quiet.”
Harbin nods, enters the bathroom cubicle, and closes the door.
They are looking at the security-camera screens when they hear a groan from the back of the building, where Dopestick is tied to a heavy-duty shelving unit. They both walk back. The slaver’s feet are bound, his hands bound behind his back, and the noose around his neck is tied to the shelf, so if he moves or tips over he will choke. There is blood on the floor behind one knee. Helton looks sharply at Harbin.
“Hamstrings. Didn’t want him getting any ideas.”
Helton nods grimly. He squats and looks at the prisoner, whose eyes are still closed. Harbin says, “I’ll keep an eye out,” then returns to the security screen. Slowly and groggily Dopestick comes around, looking blearily at Helton. A flash of recognition passes over his face.
“You!?”
“Yup. Looks like the shoe is on the other foot, hmm?”
“How’d you get here so fast? Where’s everyone else?”
“Life is full of little mysteries, ain’t it?”
“Sod off, snoddie!”
“You aren’t too bright, are you?” Helton points to the hamstrung leg.
“Look in the mirror, asshole. You can’t go anywhere from here!”
“Just have to see about that.”
“We’ll hunt you down like a dog!”
Helton just eyes him for a minute, turning the scissors about in his hand. Dopestick stares back.
“So. What’s the routine around here?”
“Screw you! You can’t even fly out of here unless you have clearance and pass onboard security. You’re stuck here!”
“Well,” says Helton, not sounding very concerned, “that might be a problem. Or it might not.” The captive’s derisive laugh chokes and gargles to a stop on the cord around his neck. Helton continues, “You didn’t think we could get here for two or three days, and we showed up in a day and a half.” He pushes the man up a little straighter so the noose is not so tight around his neck.
Dopestick glares at him. “So? So you took all the water and ran here, sweating it out. Big
deal. I don’t give a shit about sheep like you. Not a runny, pus-filled shit about any of you. You’re all scum, and you’ll die in the mines like the rest!”
“Maybe, maybe not. But if I can get here much faster than you thought possible, and get the drop on you, what else might we do to clear atmo?” He stands and walks away.
Back at the security desk, Helton tells Harbin quietly, “He’s got a point. Fliers have locks.”
“Hmph. One problem at a time,” Harbin says, pointing at a screen. The security cameras show two men walking across the ground toward the building. One of the men puts a hand to his ear, trying to hear a com unit. He stops walking and gesticulates while arguing. The second man stops and looks back. The first turns around, shouting at someone near the mine entrance. He loses the argument, and both men head back to the main mine building. “Their lucky day,” Harbin murmurs, fingering the scissors.
“What’s with that guy’s attitude?” Helton asks Harbin, looking back at their prisoner. Harbin looks steadily at Helton, waiting for clarification. “Why did they dump us and say ‘work off our debt,’ and now he says we deserve to be here?”
“Compartmentalization.” Now it’s Helton’s turn to look blank. “Op-Sec. And a way of getting good and marginal people to do bad things. If you tell the average guy to go murder someone, he won’t. But the guys on the ship that gassed us were told one story. They need to be smart enough and educated enough to get a sensitive job onboard, and patient enough to be in place a while; that’s not the typical psycho killer. So, they don’t directly hurt anyone. They can deny their evil to themselves.
“The ship and passengers then get passed to someone else, who is told a different story. We get passed along by who knows how many people, with yet a different story at each step. Each stupid grunt is fed a story that lets him live with himself and think his actions are justified. That way the people making the plans — and profits — only need a couple of real psycho-killers on the payroll, rather than dozens. Much easier to do. Each is in a separate compartment of information from the other. He possibly really does think we belong here and doesn’t know a single correct thing about us. Crime gangs, cult leaders, pirates, and politicians all do it. Military units, too. It is often called ‘need to know’.”
Helton shakes his head in disbelief.
“It’s useful. And dangerous,” Harbin concludes.
“Well, shit. With guys like that around we might have to leave fast. Best not leave empty-handed. I’ll see what I can find.”
Helton grabs a beat-up duffel bag, rifles through it for a moment, and empties it out. Then he walks quickly through the aisles between the shelves, searching the boxes, bins, and crates for anything that might be useful. He grabs a couple of water bottles from an already-opened case and tosses them in the bag. He pops open a box labeled “emergency rations” and takes a few. He finds a shelf stacked with footlocker-sized crates labeled “6.5mm M210 Carbine.” Just as he reaches for them, he hears the front door open, and voices arguing.
Harbin stands to the side of the front door, one half of the disassembled scissors ready to stab or slice. The door opens, sunlight blasting into the relatively dark interior of the building, and a man wearing an ill-maintained guard uniform walks in, followed closely by two more who are arguing. None of them see Harbin in the shadows.
“So I tell the guy ‘that’s bullshit,’ and–” says Guard Three.
“The hell you said that–” Guard Two interrupts.
“URK!?” says Guard Three, as Harbin steps forward and stabs him in the throat. At the same time he shoves Guard Two hard from behind, tossing him forward into Guard One, who stumbles and falls with Guard Two on top of him.
“THE HELL?!” Guard One yells at Guard Two.
“WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?!” Guard Two yells at Guard Three. Then Harbin slings the very surprised and nearly dead Guard Three on top of the other two, pulling out the scissor blade and slicing sideways as he does so. Guard Two rolls over and Harbin slashes his throat, then holds the blade to Guard One’s throat. He freezes.
Helton, back in an aisle between two high rows of shelving, jerks around in surprise at the sudden commotion, then drops the duffel and sprints to the front of the building. He looks at the mess in shock.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
Harbin shrugs. “Only three of them.”
Guard One is now in the back next to Dopestick, tied up similarly. The two bodies lie nearby. Helton and Harbin are at the end of an aisle, looking into an open gun crate. “If we can find ammo, things just got easier,” Harbin says.
“I’ll see what there is,” Helton replies. He moves off down the aisle and around the corner, searching shelves. Harbin stoops down, removes a shrink-wrapped rifle from the packing crate, and peels back the plastic.
“Found it,” Helton calls.
“Good. Drag a few thousand rounds up front, then find magazines.”
“What?”
“Hope we don’t need it all, but ammo is like money. I have yet to have too much.”
Flight
Harbin and Helton stand near the door of the warehouse, rifles slung across their chests, pockets loaded with full magazines. Nearby is a heap of stuff ready to go: two duffel bags, 20-liter water cans, two more rifles, opened cases of ammunition, and bandoleers full of magazines.
“Almost time,” Helton says.
“Still need to get more info on the fliers from our unhelpful friends, though,” Harbin says. “You might want to plug your ears.”
Helton looks at him uncertainly. “I thought Sikhs were all peaceful and into the sanctity of life?”
“Mostly, yes. Never said I was a particularly good one,” Harbin says. “And others are depending on us.” He walks to the back of the warehouse. An agonized scream rings through the room. Then another. Another. Helton winces more each time.
Harbin returns to the front of the building holding a small bag. He walks to the pile of things he pulled out of the slaver’s pockets and fishes out an electronic key. He holds up the bag and key and says, “I think we have what we need. Time to go.”
“What’d you do?”
“Pegged his give-a-shit meter.”
They pick up the gear and walk out the door.
Helton and Harbin walk confidently by the corner of the building toward the landing area with rifles, duffels, water and ammo cans, and three bandoleers apiece. They stride boldly to the largest of the fliers, as if they have every right to be there. At the boarding hatch near the front they set down the gear and water. Next to the closed hatch is a handprint scanner.
“What now?” Helton asks.
Harbin retrieves the bag from a cargo pocket. From it he takes a severed hand and places it against the scanner. It flashes green, and built-in stairs fold down as the hatch opens. He casually drops the hand back in the bag, tucks it in his pocket, and picks up his load. They march up the stairs and inside, and the hatch closes behind them.
They drop the supplies on the deck and head for the nearby cockpit door. They arrive at the door at the same time and both pause, each waving the other to go first. Then awareness dawns.
“Aren't you a pilot?” Harbin says, incredulous.
“Aren’t you? It was your idea.”
Harbin shakes his head. An awkward silence follows as they consider their predicament.
Finally Helton asks, “Not … at all?”
“Not even barely.”
“Then let’s hope this thing doesn’t crash as easily as a simulator,” says Helton, as he leads the way into the cockpit. Harbin looks at Helton in surprise, then fatalistic acceptance.
They climb into the seats and buckle in, then sit for a moment as Helton looks over the cockpit controls, which are very different from the layout in his simulator test. Helton mutters to himself as he identifies various controls. “Okay, master ignition, keylock, attitude indicators, pedals, landing gear. That must be …” he cocks his head and frowns in confusion for a mo
ment, “hopefully something I don’t need. Ah! Security check!” He points to a pad off to one side. “Give me a hand, there.”
Harbin puts the severed hand on the handprint-scanner, which blinks, then lights up with the message: “Pilot authentication: POSITIVE.” Harbin gives the electronic key to Helton, who inserts it into the keylock, which lights up the control panels. He examines screens, flips a few switches, and a moment later they hear the sound of machinery spinning up to speed.
“Here goes,” Helton says grimly. “Hang on tight.”
Their flier starts to rise, slowly and unevenly. It tips, lurches to one side, and runs into the other large flier, tearing a big gash with the landing strut and tangling the forward landing gear. It twists, tips, and turns trying to get free, but the strut just gets more tangled. The flier struggles, swaying and sagging, over-stressed drives whining, but after a few seconds it settles down, front end on top of the other large flier, back end crushing one of the small fliers.
Armed and uniformed prison guards, sloppily dressed and unkempt, exit one of the large buildings abutting the mesa. They start firing at the ship, now sitting off-kilter, half on and half off the other large flier. The rear cargo ramp drops, and Helton and Harbin run out, heading for the remaining medium flier. Helton carries most of their supplies — water, duffels, ammunition — while Harbin has only bandoleers, one ammo can, and a rifle.
Harbin drops to one knee — into a good supported firing position — and squeezes off a dozen rapid aimed shots. Guards fall to the ground in rapid succession. The survivors are spraying fire wildly on full-automatic kicking up spurts of dust, but none very close to Harbin. More guards run out of the building while others try to run back in, making for a generally confused and chaotic scene. Harbin is calm and precise, a professional. He keeps shooting, drops a magazine, and smoothly inserts another with barely a pause in his firing.
A pintle-mounted light 25mm grenade launcher with a telescopic sight stands on a parapet that forms one wall of a building that overlooks the landing field from a high angle. A half-dressed guard runs out from a nearby door and throws himself behind the grenade launcher. He scans the field and sees Helton, standing at the flier’s open door, tossing in essential goods. Helton turns, waves to Harbin to hurry up. The guard quickly centers in, setting the crosshairs high on the center of Helton’s back. BOOM! The launcher jerks up a bit in recoil. Then the guard settles the scope back onto Helton’s prostrate form. He is stretched out face down, motionless, a charred smoking spot covering much of his upper back.